


Estoy Aquí

by mardemaravilla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Manchester City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardemaravilla/pseuds/mardemaravilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David gets hurt during a game and Joe can't get his gloves off fast enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Estoy Aquí

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ this prompt](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9132.html?thread=2445484#t2445484).

Joe watches. He watches as though it isn't happening. Not right there at least. Not right there, right in front of him, right that very moment. He watches the broad, strong body of Romelu Lukaku crash right into David, sending the midfielder flying through the air, limbs splayed out at unnatural angles. Joe watches as David lands, his body crumpled in a heap and staying quite still.

Joe's feet are suddenly moving, moving faster than his mouth which keeps shouting for the stretcher, faster than his hands, fumblingfumblingfumbling with the damned straps on his gloves. The damned straps that he can't quite grasp onto and FUCK _why isn't David moving_?! He breaks into a run, tearing down into midfield, scrabbling at his gloves all the while, eyes focused on the group of medics, players and referees huddling around the small frame.

Mario sees him coming and steps out of the circle, steps towards Joe and says, "Shit, man." 

Joe's knees are suddenly too wobbly to keep running, and he staggers ungainly towards Mario, still fucking fumbling with these godfuckingdamned straps on his gloves. Mario reaches his arms out, long, strong and steadying, and takes Joe by the shoulders, the elbows and then the wrists, prying his fingers away and removing the gloves for him. Mario's voice is still echoing in his ears and Joe can't speak, but the younger man gently pushes him into the circle around David.

The medics are checking his pupil reflex by the time Joe sinks to his knees beside the Spaniard, and he can't help notice just how cool the air is on his sweaty, ungloved palms. He can hear the voices of Carlos and Pablo, Spanish words he doesn't quite understand and David is _still_ not moving. Joe's fingers reach out for David's, slender and stationary on the grass and he squeezes them, squeezes them as tight as he can without hurting them, voicelessly begging the man to be okay.

_Please, be okay._

Joe can't quite keep the gasp of relief in when David's eyelids flutter slowly. The medics crowd in more, calling to the smaller man, asking him questions about where he is and who he is and how he feels.

Nobody asks Joe how he feels.

Nobody needs to.

When Silva's eyes open slowly and he focuses on Joe, nobody needs to ask the keeper what it means when Silva breathes, " _Mi amor_."

And nobody needs to ask when Joe leans in and murmurs, " _Sí, estoy aquí_."


End file.
